


Something Worth Losing

by SmidgeonPigeon



Category: Adventures of Tintin (2011), Tintin (Comics), Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26604910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmidgeonPigeon/pseuds/SmidgeonPigeon
Summary: Haddock is gravely injured on an adventure and Tintin must learn to reconcile how terrifying it is to have something worth losing for the first time.
Relationships: Archibald Haddock & Tintin
Comments: 16
Kudos: 32





	1. Heavy

**Author's Note:**

> Tintin is always the one getting injured and worrying the old sailor sick. How does he respond when the tables are turned?

_I knew it would end like this_

Haddock thinks bitterly.

Liquid is spilling out from between his third and fourth rib. Despite the embossed ivory handle jutting out in true "I have been stabbed" fashion, he's not in pain.

No, it just feels like a herd of elephants are pressing down on a single point. _Decidedly uncomfortable._

"Captain! _Oh, Captain_." He hears Tintin call out for him breathlessly, dimly aware of his attacker falling with a sickening crack onto the cobblestone path. Tintin makes quick work of securing him with rope.

It's done in a matter of seconds with the ease of a practiced hand. With some effort, Haddock glances down to inspect the damage. Red has never been his color even if it is his temperament.

 _Nestor will be glad it's ruined,_ Haddock thinks, absurdly. Last year the butler had helped Castafiore choose his daily outfits during her infernal stay with, Haddock thought, a little too much enthusiasm.

Tintin is an electric blue blur, grabbing an abandoned revolver and firing two shots into the air. He shouts. "Help! Call an ambulance!"

_I've been stabbed, Tintin._

"Ine...gh," he grits out, unsure of what he's trying to say. Something reassuring, most likely, but right now his tongue is a thick, clumsy thing. A seal on land.

The thought awakens an absurd memory from the distant past. Back when he was still a cabin boy with a peach fuzz beard and saw seals for the first time. He wanted to make a good impression on his superiors but couldn't help laughing uproariously at how ridiculous the creatures looked, tumbling over themselves in loud excitement to avoid a docking dingy.

Had they ever been collided into in the past? Could they even feel it beneath all the blubber?

He laughs. Or tries to, anyway.

_"Gehehh..."_

"Shhh, don't try to talk. Just focus on me and stay awake," Tintin instructs, his voice steady, eyes scanning his face frantically.

By the grace of a merciful God in His heaven they've survived death a thousand times over. Escaped the most ridiculous circumstances. Really, it didn't get more absurd than nearly being burned at the stake in the heart of a South American jungle, this day and age.

Even so, this is the first time Tintin looks well and truly terrified. There's a subtle, almost imperceptible tremor in his hands, his breathing comes shallow and fast.

 _But,_ the old sailor thinks proudly, _he still has his wits about him. Brave and stalwart as any soldier._

Impossibly, Haddock manages to say the words he believes are his last. He has to make them count. 

"Looks like I was good for something after all."

Tintin blinks twice. In the distance the scream of sirens pollutes the air.

"Captain..."

Haddock's words tumble out slowly, heavy with conviction. Copper coins sliding from an outstretched hand.

"The world needs good men like you, Tintin. Reckless and brave. It gives old fools like me hope."

 _Gave,_ his mind corrects. Snowy whines and whimpers, licking his fingertips. Recognition flashes in the eyes above him.

"That knife was meant for me," Tintin says, quietly. Haddock's vision flickers. He doesn't have much time. He's been on borrowed time from the day they met. And somehow, knowing Tintin would be the death of him was far better than a lonely end with a bottle. He just didn't think it would happen so soon. He wants to say goodbye properly before it's too late.

"I'm tired, Tintin."

He hears his friend calling his name, begging him to stay awake, and briefly registers the wheels of a car pulling into the opening of their dirty little alleyway in the middle of nowhere Lithuania.

Then, like a sinking ship swallowed by a greedy sea, the Captain is sucked under a wave of painless black.


	2. Unease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm...

Miraculously, Haddock wakes up not dead. He's discharged after major surgery and exhausted but otherwise not worse for wear.

Nestor makes accommodations and both he and Tintin do their best to limit his movements, restricting his exertion to trips to the head and the journey between his bedroom and the sitting room. By all accounts, life has returned to normal at Marlinspike. 

It's not until two weeks after he’s discharged from the hospital that Haddock notices something is off. 

He’s been sent home with a veritable pharmacy of pain and anti-inflammatory medication stocked behind his bathroom mirror. For the first time ever he’s actually grateful for Calculus’ confounded white pills that make delicious whiskey taste foul as bilgewater. It’s dangerous business to mix analgesics with alcohol so he’s sure to take a white pill along with the handful he’s been prescribed every morning to keep the temptation of imbibing at bay. 

The first time he notices a change in Tintin’s demeanor it’s a mild Thursday afternoon. They’re comfortably settled in the library in a companionable silence. Snowy and the Siamese lie curled together by the hearth in a rare truce; a steady fire flickering and popping nearby. It casts a homely glow in the grand expanse of the room, making the space cosy and warming the cold austere marble flooring and alabaster pillars that define the great room.

Haddock has a newspaper spread upon his knee but finds his attention wandering. After a fourth unsuccessful attempt to keep his focus on the printed text, he forgoes the venture altogether. Unconsciously, his hand finds its way to the recovering injury and rests over it. There’s a persistent tenderness below his fourth left rib that’s waning gradually as the days pass. Haddock still cannot take a full breath comfortably and he takes care to move slowly, lest the pain lurking just below the surface should suddenly rouse itself and strike like an agitated cobra. His focus finds its way to the window and the overcast sky. The wind whips the tree boughs of the newly planted oaks outside. 

Their rhythmic swaying holds Haddock’s attention, the movement reminding him of the sea. But just as he feels his mind sliding into reverie, he catches sight of something reflected in the darkening glass of the windowpane. It’s Tintin, staring at him. He’s seated on the comfortable orange settee towards the back of the room, book in hand, wearing an expression Haddock has never seen on the young man. It looks pained to the point of sorrow. Grieved, even. 

Instinctively, the sailor whirls around too quickly to face him and grimances at the painful protest from his ribs. “What’s wrong, old fellow?” He asks, suddenly much more alert than he’s been all evening. The medication slows him down but it won’t get the best of him yet, by thunder. 

“Hm? Why, nothing, Captain. Why do you ask?” Tintin answers, smiling at him with the same earnest expression Haddock has seen a thousand times before. Haddock feels himself blink in confusion. Surely he didn’t imagine that face. How could he? The ancient grandfather clock beside him chimes dutifully, prompting Tintin to ask, “It’s already eight. Would you like me to bring you your medication? The small blue tablets are what you take at this hour, yes?” Tintin asks, already on his feet. 

“Er, yes. Thank you, Tintin,” the Captain answers quickly, an unformed question prickling at the back of his mind. 

“That’s very kind of you,” he adds as Tintin reaches the door. Upon hearing the words, the young man seems to pause. He stands at the doorway threshold for a few seconds before saying, “Not at all, Captain. I’ll fetch you a glass of water as well,” he adds, before leaving the room. 

Long after Haddock has downed the medicine and retired for the evening, he becomes aware of a hitherto nameless feeling that began the moment he caught sight of Tintin’s reflection in the window. A feeling that grew with their subsequent interaction and the quiet that followed: 

_Unease._

It keeps him awake well into the night, the scene playing itself out on an endless loop until the medication kicks in and his body plunges into an irresistible darkness. 

__________

The second time happens under the newly installed gazebo on the sprawling grounds of Marlinspike’s gardens. Haddock had originally installed it per the request of Calculus who, blast him, only deigned to use it once in a blue moon. Thankfully, the reporter in residence had taken it upon himself to make the most of the welcome shade offered by the beautiful Spanish-style structure on warmer days when he felt restless. 

Seeing how occupied Nestor was in the kitchen meant that Haddock took it upon himself to ask Tintin if he wanted to join him and Cuthbert for dinner that evening. Not finding him in any of his usual haunts meant Haddock was likely to find him under the gazebo either reading, typing an article, or, occasionally…

_Thwock!_

The Captain hears the sound of flesh colliding with a solid surface long before he reaches the garden. As he draws near he hears a quick succession of strikes and a flurry of kicks against a sturdy punching bag. The sound reminds him of what a terror his mild mannered friend has proven to be, time and time again to reprobates on the wrong side of the law. As he opens the garden door, he finds Tintin under the structure in a boxing stance, fully absorbed in his exercise routine. 

From the look of it, he’s barely started, no signs of perspiration on his brow or anywhere else. Haddock stands just beside the doorway, unsure if it would be prudent to interrupt and proceed with his plan of inviting the young man to dinner.

_He certainly has been training a lot, recently._

Haddock observes silently. Tintin was no slouch when it came to routine and discipline. The reporter was up by half past six without fail every morning, finished his articles for _Le Petit Vingtième_ by evening every Wednesday, and exercised regularly. The Captain occasionally joined his friend’s sparring sessions when he noticed himself getting a bit soft around the middle; the hidden dangers of too many comfortable dinners and _occasional_ drinks taking their toll.

_“Hrragh!”_

The sailor is caught off guard suddenly as Tintin cries out and delivers a particularly punishing blow to the sandbag. And Haddock sees _it._ It’s only a glimpse but he catches it, briefly:

_Anger._

“Tin...” Haddock finds himself calling his friend’s name unknowingly but finds himself too stunned to finish. The young man hears him and, alert with adrenaline, spins around to face him suddenly. The surprise must show on his face because the raw emotion is gone in an instant; immediately smoothed out as Tintin trains his face into a neutral mask with an ease and speed that unnerves Haddock. 

“Hullo, Captain!” he calls out cheerfully. Without meaning to, Haddock draws near. His friend maintains an easy smile and busies himself, unfurling the perfectly wound bandages wrapped over knuckles and wrist. “What can I do for you?” The Captain stalls, every single word in the English language suddenly abandoning ship and leaving him for dead. 

When the silence stretches on well past a socially acceptable length, Tintin tilts his chin up to catch his gaze. His brow furrows in concern. His voice comes out gentle and calm. 

“Captain? Is something wrong?”

Haddock wants to answer but a surge of irritable disgust swells in his chest so suddenly, it forces him to glance down and hide the scowl he feels stretching across his mouth. The sailor never has been able to mask his emotions. Maybe that’s why the lines of his face have seen it fit to mark permanent grooves around his eyes, carving well worn paths for every moment of joy and anger he’s experienced till now. 

“Nestor is making lunch. Will you be joining me and Cuthbert for supper?” he finally asks, lamely. Tintin blinks at him, feeling out the integrity of the words. His eyes scan Haddock’s face, searching for something before answering mildly. 

“Oh, yes. Thank you, Captain. I shall be in presently.” 

Haddock nods curtly at that and turns on his heel. He forgets to close the door behind him and, even without looking, can feel Tintin’s stare the entire time before he rounds a corner and fixes himself a neat whiskey in the kitchen. Then, remembering he can’t enjoy it, spitefully tosses the full glass into the sink. The crystal cracks but holds its shape. Haddock leaves it to take a walk around the grounds instead.

_______

Dinner proves an awkward affair.

Seated across, Tintin isn’t sure why the Captain is angry with him, but that fact is unmistakable. At this elbow, Calculus talks animatedly about his current project. 

“Just think! An azalea that’s in full bloom for eight months of the year! It’s revolutionary, I tell you. And not only that, but with my ingenious formula, asters, larkspurs, and all seasonal blooms will be enjoyed year-round. It is a most extraordinary feat for science and botany, wouldn't you agree?” 

Calculus looks at him expectantly over his stew, eyes sparkling. Tintin forces out a smile, tearing at a piece of French bread to dip into the rich sauce pooling at the bottom of his bowl. 

“Why, that’s wonderful Professor. It will be absolutely marvelous to see Marlinspike’s gardens thriving even now.” 

“How? Why, with my patented super growth formula, of course!” The professor claims triumphantly before launching into a detailed explanation about the process, making little gesticulations in the air with his spoon. 

Tintin steals a glance toward Haddock and can almost see thunderclouds looming over the man. He thinks back to anything that may have caused offense within the past few days but draws a blank. _Perhaps it’s simply withdrawal symptoms. He hasn’t had a drop of whiskey for over two weeks now,_ he thinks, settling for that as the most logical reason. His mind has not put the matter to rest before the vision of Haddock lying in a pool of red assaults his senses. 

_Shhick!_

“Tintin? What is it? Is someone at the door?” queries Calculus, turning to look at him. 

He realizes he is standing. When did he do that?

“Ah. No, sorry, I...excuse me, I feel unwell. I think I’ll have a lie down,” Tintin says quickly, calmly pushing his chair back in. “If you say so. But if you ask me, I think a lie down will do you good, young man,” the professor says solemnly. Haddock says nothing but the reporter can feel dark eyes watching him. “Good night, professor. Captain. Come along, Snowy,” Tintin calls and the faithful little terrier is on his feet in an instant. 

They ascend up the stairs to his quarters.

_Red staining blue._

The young reporter shuts the door behind him, locking it out of habit.

_The biting air whistling mournfully above the alley._

He showers. The pressure of the warm water easing the tension in his neck. 

_Hands sticky with blood._

There’s an extra button at the end of his pajama shirt. He stares at it in confusion before realizing he’s done it up wrong. Once more now, pay attention...

_The Captain’s pale face._

It isn’t even nine yet. He feels exhausted. He’s been waking up at odd hours the past few nights. What he wouldn’t give for a solid night’s rest. He pulls back the covers.

_The room is cold and sterile. The monitor beeps rhythmically. He’s hanging on every word the doctor says so why can’t he understand their meaning?_

The clock reads 11:43pm. 

The moonliit beams spilling over his covers from the half-drawn curtains glow off of Snowy’s fur. His faithful companion is curled comfortably at the end of the bed, sound asleep.

_Half an inch from the abdominal aorta. Miracle. Scheduled surgery. Stable condition._

1:20am. 

_It’s my fault._

2:45am.

_It’s my fault._

3:07am.

_I need to go._


	3. Remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Captain applies an age old remedy...

The third time finally tears it. 

Haddock wakes to what he immediately thinks is the sound of an intruder stealing through in his home. As stealthily as he can, he slides off the bed and draws out a crowbar from under the bed. He crosses the room and presses his ear to the door. There is a faint but unmistakable movement just beyond. Within seconds the sailor is in the hall and ready for anything. He gropes around the edge of the wall for the light switch. 

_ “You bashi bazouk! What are you doing in my house?”  _

Instantly, the main hall is ablaze with light and Haddock feels his jaw drop open in surprise, eyes clapped on the intruder.

_ “Tintin?”  _

Down below, with his hand resting on the brass handle of the front door stands the young man in question; Snowy at his heels and suitcase in hand. Even at this distance his posture is unmistakably stiff as he stands there, motionless. He’s wearing his trenchcoat. 

“Oh. Captain. I didn’t think you’d be awake this time of night.”

Haddock’s confusion quickly gives way to suspicious indignation. His arms fold over his chest before he speaks, voice sharp yet rough from sleep. His wound throbs angrily. He ignores it. 

“Indeed. Tell me, where in Heaven’s name are you off to, this time of night?” he interrogates coldly. Tintin’s hand doesn’t leave the door handle. 

“I apologize for waking you, Captain,” his friend replies easily, in lieu of an answer. He half turns and gives the Captain an infuriatingly apologetic smile. “Something has just come up. I may be gone some time,” he continues, hand already pressing down and shifting the tumblers of the unlocked door. “I’ll wire you a telegram as soon as I arrive. Please go back to bed and-” 

_ “Blistering barnacles, you’ll do no such thing!”  _ The Captain all but roars and immediately makes his way down the stairs, quickly taking two steps at a time. “Thundering typhoons, what kind of clumsy, ignorant iconoclast do you take me for, you-” 

_ “Captain! Slow down!”  _

Tintin manages to break the Captain‘s fall, but just barely. The momentum forces them to collapse in a tangled heap of limbs on a freezing floor. They untangle themselves gingerly and before Haddock can so much as properly catch his breath, Tintin locks eyes with him, an expression of mortified worry scanning Haddock desperately.

“Are you alright, Captain? For Heaven’s sake, _tell me you’re alright!_ ” Haddock blinks at him, mind suddenly slow and deliberate like a drip of molasses.

“Yes...yes, I’m fine but thundering typhoons, what has gotten into you, lately?” The Captain scowls, but the heat of anger is gone.

He notices how the young man’s hands tremble. How he’s averted his gaze again after confirming his well being.

“I can’t explain it Captain. It’s not...” Tintin’s mouth presses into a thin, hard line. Haddock can see him retreating into himself again. The invisible walls going up, locking him out.

“Forgive me. I can’t explain it. Please understand, I simply need to go away for a while.

They stay like that in silence for a small eternity. An uneasy calm widens the chasm of distance between them. A chasm Haddock has grown increasingly disturbed by since that evening in the library.

Haddock, never a diplomatic man by any stretch of the imagination, decides he is done playing the role he has been assigned in Tintin’s mind. A role where he is a bit player whose only task was to watch helplessly as the most important person in his life gets further and further away.

_Over his very much not dead body._

“Follow me,” he says simply, picking himself up and biting back the urge to let the pain radiating in his chest show on his face as he does so. Tintin watches him with wide concerned eyes and is quickly on his feet, offering Haddock a hand which he refuses to take. Instead he walks purposefully away, an idea already forming of how to dispel the distance that has wedged itself between them.

Tintin’s light steps sound off the marble behind him as Haddock makes for the kitchen.

Wordlessly, he busies himself fetching the necessary ingredients for a little experiment he wants to conduct. Tintin stands silently under the doorway, watching him.  
Even without turning around, he can already see his friend’s eyebrows furrow in mild consternation and his mouth pulling into a frown as he uncorks a vintage Loch Lomond.

“Captain, this is hardly the time for-“

“It is _exactly_ the time,” Haddock replies sternly, fielding off the accusation and sliding the glass tumbler into Tintin’s hand. The amber liquid gleams as it swirls and settles. Tintin stares at it as if he’s never seen a pour of whiskey before.Haddock leans against the counter, battling fatigue from the medicine he took just a few hours ago.

“You want to go? Fine. I won’t stop you. But you’ll drink my poison of choice before you do.” Haddock outlines his terms, hands curled into loose fists and settled on his hips to convey that this condition is not up for debate.

“Why?” Tintin questions, eyes not leaving the liquid.

“Because you look like you need it,” Haddock replies matter of factly.

He’s about to launch into a robust explanation of why Tintin needs to drink at least some of the whiskey before the young man suddenly draws the glass to his lips and tips his head back, gulping it all down with reckless abandon. Like a man dying of desert thirst. Despite himself, Haddock feels his jaw drop, mind and eyes fumbling to coordinate and explain what’s just happened. Tintin exhales as the now empty glass finds its way back to the counter. His eyes look cloudy. Not quite drunk but no longer fully sober, either.

For one terrifying instant Haddock is afraid. He’s afraid Tintin will turn on his heel and walk out the door. Instead, the young man picks up the glass again and holds it out towards him.

“Another one please,” he says, finally looking him in the eye.

Haddock obliges, making sure to give him less than half the amount of the first pour. Blistering barnacles, that was a generous portion even by his standards and the lad all but inhaled it as if it were-

“I owe you an apology, Captain,” Tintin says steadily.

"For what?”

Tintin smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

"For the past four weeks. You've suffered terribly on my account," he continues, quietly. 

Haddock isn't prepared for the conversation that follows. He knows he isn't. 

"Is that what's been filling your mind all this time?"

Tintin doesn't reply. Haddock sighs.

"It's a bit drafty in here. Why don't we talk in the library? I'll get a fire going."

Haddock can almost feel Tintin turning the idea over in his mind before he finally responds.

"Alright, Captain."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No spoilers but Tintin is gonna allude to some pretty hardcore stuff in the next chapter so we'll get a much better idea of why the attack was more terrifying and horrible for him than Haddock could have ever imagined...stay tuned! ;)

**Author's Note:**

> If you leave me a comment I will love you forever from a socially acceptable distance. <3


End file.
